Compromise

I have come to the conclusion that people’s fear of being alone can lead them to do things unthinkable. That fear causes them to compromise. It causes them to negotiation their personal standards, and it causes them to settle for less. I do not understand this. Why would you settle for dirt and grit when you could have diamonds and gold? In the end, after they have reached their settlement, they always find themselves alone, disappointed, and even more dissatisfied than before.

When we look to each other instead of to God for purpose, meaning, and fulfillment we are left with let-downs, discontentment, and displeasure. When we look to ourselves for salvation we becoming disenchanted with life – with living it and participating in it – and we lose hope. We must turn to God and allow Him to satisfy us, to define us, to fulfill us, and complete us. Or else we will have no choice but to put up with our own filth.

The Clock That Didn’t Tell Time…

More than five years ago I bought the clock that hangs on my wall. It’s a good-sized clock and has served me well over the years. Its face is composed of a yellowing, faux-ivory background marked with Roman numerals. I purchased it because of that. Well, that and because of the brown, cracked paint that runs along its sides and across the hour, minute, and second hands.

I used to adjust the clock whenever there was a time change. Twice a year I would take it off the wall, remove the back, and spin a little wheel until the hour hand moved forward or backwards an hour to reflect the correct time. But I stopped doing that a long time ago. So it’s always been off an hour, more or less.

One of my favorite things about this clock is its tick. Its tick isn’t all that quiet. It’s quite loud, actually. When I first got it, I couldn’t stand how loud it was. Now, I find it comforting. My room feels un-comfortable without the sound of that clock.

A few nights ago I was having a hard time falling asleep and I just laid in bed with the light on listening to the tick of the clock. I haven’t relied on its time-telling for years and, realizing this while I laid in bed, I glanced over and looked at it. I laughed when I saw that the clock said it was 3:39. The sun had set just a few hours earlier and I was surprised at how off the clock had become. A few minutes and a few thoughts later my mind wandered back to that clock. It took me a while to process, but I realized that the clock’s arms hadn’t moved. Even the second hand ticked in place. It must have been dropped when I moved a year and a half ago, I figured. The clock ticked but didn’t tell time…and there was something amazingly appropriate about that. I have felt stuck in the same place, the same rut, for the last year and a half and my dear little clock with its Roman numerals and faux-ivory background reflected that. As far as both my clock and myself are concerned, it has been three thirty-nine and fifty-three seconds for eighteen months.

I was going to take the clock off the wall, remove the back, and spin a little wheel until it read the correct time (12:02:15, at the moment). Perhaps one day, when it is supposed to, that minute hand will move to 54 seconds and time will stop standing still. The clock’s hands will start moving forward like nothing had ever happened. I figure that, like all things, it will, at the perfect time, pick up where it left off. And when it does, maybe I will too.

Misunderstanding.

Waking up in at 11pm to hear one of your parents talking about you and one of your friends is one of the worst feelings you can experience. Hearing their voice go from a normal, audible tone to a whisper makes you sick. So you close your window, close your eyes, and strain yourself to make out their words. What’s confusing is the fact that they brought up those concerns and you explained the situation. (In this case, “I had two drinks on an empty stomach and asked someone to drive me home. I didn’t feel like risking anything just because I felt fine. I know the law and I wanted to obey it.”) So waking up to hear those same concerns being discussed to your sibling (who was not present at all when this whole thing happened) and one of his friends (whose business this is not) was disheartening. I felt, well, betrayed and I don’t know what hurt me more: being talked about at a time when I was thought to be asleep by a parent, or being talked about to a sibling who did not defend me when my own defense was absent.

Maybe this is how all families work. Maybe this is how every institution works. Everyone says the good things to each other’s faces and then discusses their true feelings when we’re turned away out of earshot.

Hard Times

For some reason I have lost all motivation. I have lost interest in life, not living life, but just life in general. I have lost hope in the idea that good people – men and women – still exist. I have lost hope in the idea of love, of generosity, and of cutting people breaks. I have lost hope in the idea of luck (did that ever exist?) and the idea of opportunity. Life is still worth living, don’t get me wrong. It’s just that everything seems meaningless right now. I work five days a week, I do the same thing everyday, but my room is still a mess, there’s still laundry to be done, and the amount that I owe my credit card company is still the same a year ago despite my faithful monthly payments. I have been shown grace a few times over the years…and for that I am eternally grateful. Without those Divine Mercies I would be, well, let’s not go there.

Perhaps it’s that I am frustrated. I am frustrated that I am a jack of all trades but the master of none; frustrated that I only need one class for my A.A. but unless I am registered this semester my A.A. program will be discontinued and I’ll need more classes to graduate. I am frustrated that I am alone. I am frustrated that I have allowed other people to make me feel unworthy of someone else’s love. I am frustrated that I am continually sick. I am frustrated that I only make a few dollars more an hour than I did when I was 16. I am frustrated that right and left I see people being handed things for doing nothing while I feel I am working myself to physical, mental, and emotional exhaustion in hopes that I will be able to move an inch in any direction other than backwards. I am frustrated that I have allowed myself the five minutes of wallowing in disgusting self-pity through this letter…to no one.

I am in love…

I am in love with integrity. I am in love with intelligence. I am in love with learning. I am in love with wisdom. I am in love with independence. I am in love with comfortability. I am in love with altruism. I am in love with humor. I am in love with statistics. I am in love with brown hair. I am in love with freedom. I am in love with the hope the future holds. I am in love with God. I am in love with attentiveness. I am in love with being content. I am in love with ethical behavior. I am in love with self-sacrifice. I am in love with words. I am in love with music.

I am in love with someone who doesn’t exist.

Romanticism

Yesterday, while on my way to the wedding of a good friend of mine, my mind, naturally, wondered off into the ideas of love and romance. I begin to think about what others would define as the meaning of life and if, in their definition, love would be included.

Romanticism is defined as the quality of being romantic or having romantic inclinations.
Romance is defined as, simply, a love affair.
Love can be defined as any of a number of emotions and experiences relating to a sense of strong affection or profound oneness.

If you think about it long enough and in-depth enough, you will see that everyone in the entire world is looking for that oneness. Honesty we are all looking for a spouse; we are looking for someone that we can feel one with.

So, if you think about it, we are all romantics.

I Thought Wrong

J’ai pensé que je vous ai connu. J’ai pensé que nous avons connu l’eachother. J’ai espéré que vous m’aimeriez. Tout le moment vous avez imploré une autre voie de vivre indépendamment de moi. J’ai pensé que vous étiez heureux. J’ai pensé que nous étions heureux ensemble. J’ai espéré que vous me choisiriez. Au lieu de cela vous avez choisi une autre voie de vivre indépendamment de moi. Je me suis rendu compte que toute cette fois j’ai changé ma vie pour
obtenir quelque chose que je ne peux pas obtenir pour trouver
quelqu’un qui n’existe pas. Une meilleure chance la fois prochaine.

I Love You.

I love you. After sifting through boxes and boxes of books I emerged from the storage room to show him my treasured findings. I read off the titles of the books and included a synopsis, and that’s what he said to me. He just sat there at the table and said it. I love you. I knew at that moment he felt sorry for me. He saw my untamed curly hair, my acne-scarred skin, or my maybe he noticed that I hadn’t shaved under my arms in at least three weeks. Or perhaps it was my passionate vomiting of authors, titles, and abridgments that caught his attention. No matter. He saw what he saw. And he was sad for me. Compelled by a bittersweet mix of compassion and pity he told me that he loved me. He saw my insecurities as well as my effort to push through them and live a normal life. He saw me participate despite my naturally uncomfortable disposition. And he said it. I love you.

Although I thought all these things I made sure not to give myself away. So I just smiled and replied. I love you too.
Because the truth is, I do.

Hopeful Disappointment and other Contradictions

I find myself sitting here in my room, in the dark, surrounded by candles trying to reinstall garage band so I can express myself musically. Seeing as that I am having a hard time trouble finding the application files, etc., I am forced to turn back to what I hate: writing words on paper that no one will ever see, read, or wonder about…which is fine. Today has been weird to say the least and I should be bitter and angry but I am not. I am thoughtful, analytical, curious, and oddly hopeful. I am inspired. But not the kind of inspiration that is the result of a raging breath of new life. Instead it’s a quiet, timid, secret inspiration. I want to grow so much as a person at this very moment. I want to study music theory, I want to study chord progressions, I want to study the harp, I want to study logic and reason, I want to study Mormonism, I want to study psychology, and I want to study the Bible. I want to know more about the heart of God. I want to hear His unmistakable voice and I want to hear it telling me what to do next. I want to know what I am supposed to do now. London? Music? Money. Time. Work? Writing? Commitment. Boundaries. I will do whatever is supposed to come next. I want to impact people’s lives and make a difference. But I want to be alone. I want to be comforted. But I don’t want to open up. I want to realize by dreams and goals. But I don’t want to have to exhaust myself to make them happen. I want amazing things to happen. But I don’t want to be open, vulnerable, or raw with others. I want to travel far away. But I don’t ever want to leave my room again. I want to go do something. But I don’t want to move. Every part of my being from my lazy fingers to the innermost parts of my soul is feeling contradictory. I am happy and I am sad. I am hurt and I have hurt others. I am irritated but I am over it.

Duality

I cannot remember the last time that I found myself in such a strong state of duality. I find myself convicted and inspired, discouraged and motivated, down trodden but uplifted. I must admit that, thus far, God has used you to change me. I wish that I felt comfortable telling you this but I do not think that talk of such things would be appropriate to disclose at this time.

Stagnancy, you see, can no longer be permitted to dwell in these old bones. Spirited movement has been asked to fill the frame of my body and breathe life into that which has not moved for years.

Oh, how I long to talk to you. How I long to listen to you talk about God, about art, about music, about everything and nothing. I desire to know you and call you mine. I want to hold your hand, stroke your face, and recite inside jokes when appropriate. It’s hard not to become discouraged, you see, because the road that leads me to you seems so long that the dismissing idea of the journey “not being worth it” has become a frequent temptation. But I realize that I have two choices: I can stay where I am or move forward. Staying here will only increase my limitations. Staying here will allow my muscle to rot even more so and what little strength I do have will vanish. Or, I could move forward. Moving in that direction will draw me closer to Jesus and I will begin to exhibit His strength in no time. My limitations themselves will become limited and the possibilities of my future will increase. I also know that moving forward will move me closer to you. I just pray that you’re still around when I am ready to step into God’s perfect will.